


Bugout Bag

by CorwinOfAmber



Category: Fringe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorwinOfAmber/pseuds/CorwinOfAmber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter tells Olivia about his past, full disclosure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Full Disclosure

Olivia raised her Glock, then gave Peter the nod. He grinned eagerly and put all his weight behind the kick, and the door crashed open, splinters flying.

He was getting real good at kicking down doors.

Olivia moved in and crouched before the door could even slam into the wall, gun at the ready. "FBI! Freeze!"

Just as she had anticipated, Levon Williams turned tail and ran toward the back of the apartment. Olivia followed suit, though checking dark corners and open doors as a precaution. As she sped off, she heard Peter take off downstairs as their quarry crashed through a window onto the fire escape.

Olivia and Peter have done this so often that the same outcome is virtually guaranteed; unless Williams had a getaway vehicle ready at the bottom of the fire escape, he was as good as caught. She saw Williams leap over the rail and drop to the ground, stumble badly, then take off down the alleyway.

It's too risky, she thought to herself. You could break an ankle...

Despite her misgivings, Olivia ignored her own advice and hurdled over the railing, landing twenty feet behind Williams. She pursued him at a brisk jog; no sense in tiring herself out if Peter is about to make his appearance...

Williams reached the edge of the building, and was hurled to the sidewalk face first after a two-by-four struck him across the shins. Peter stepped out from around the corner where he had been standing and grinned. "That never gets old!"

Olivia flashed him a smile as she cuffed the groaning Williams.

All in a day's work.

Driving Peter home, Olivia shared a grin; they had successfully solved a case, and for once, no one had died. "It went well today, didn't it?"

Peter chuckled. "We got lucky. Williams was an amateur."

His remark caused the wheels in Olivia's head to turn. They've never spoken much about Peter's past line of work, she realized. Of course, that was before they found themselves in their current relationship; if she asked about it now, would she get more than evasion this time? She wanted to know everything about Peter, especially the things that he'd probably not want her to. Both because they'd wasted so much time already, and because at some point it just might become important.

She phrased the question as a hypothetical. "If you were Williams, what would you have done differently?"

He stared into the distance, thinking. "If I were Williams, I wouldn't have called my mother to announce I was leaving. I would've assumed we were listening in, which we were. He got sentimental. Plus, he didn't have an escape plan. He was just winging it."

Olivia studied his face. Peter is trying his best to be unreadable, but it never works with her.

"Do you have an escape plan?" She keeps her eyes on the road, her voice neutral, giving him time to consider his answer. Then she adds the kicker. "Full disclosure."

Peter winces. "Yeah, I do. I set it up a week after I got back in Boston. Haven't even thought about it for over a year."

Olivia pulled into the driveway of the Bishop household, shut off the motor of the SUV, and stared at Peter. Peter waited for her say something, fidgeting a little.

She twined her fingers in his, her green eyes confronting his blue. "Tell me?"

Peter pulls her hand up to his lips, kissed her fingers. "I'll do better than that. I'll show you the whole thing – starting tomorrow morning."

He leaned in to kiss her, and Olivia was overcome by a wave of affection. She wrapped her arms around his neck and indulged herself. They spent the next few minutes making out like high-schoolers until Peter finally forced himself to pull away.

"Are you going to spend the night?" he said, caressing her cheek.

Olivia chewed her lips, glanced past him toward the house. She could see Walter staring at them through the windows, a giddy expression on his face.

"With Walter here...I don't think so. Not sure I can handle that, yet."

Peter kissed her forehead fondly.

"It's alright," he replied. "I can't say I blame you; I mean, sometimes I can't handle it. Pick me up tomorrow at eight?"

"You got it."

Peter was standing in the driveway, stamping his feet when she arrived next morning. He was inside the vehicle before she could turn off the engine.

"Astrid is gonna pick Walter up and take him to the lab," he said.

He gave her an address in the bad part of town, and she drove there without receiving an explanation on Peter's part. Twenty minutes later, they had arrived in a rundown neighborhood, where they parked in front of a dilapidated postwar house with a hole in the porch roof.

"Stay in the car," Peter said as he got out of the Navigator. He strode confidently up to the front door, knocked, and was let in immediately. Olivia loosened her pistol in its holster and looked about warily, while sipping the coffee from Peter's thermos; in this neighborhood, her Lincoln Navigator was starting to draw some attention.

Peter reappeared minutes later, a worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He stared at some of the gawkers as he walked back, the intensity of his gaze forcing them to back down and walk away. He tossed the satchel on the floor and got in beside her.

"Drive," he said. "Sorry about that; we should have taken the station wagon."

Olivia obeyed, eager to vacate the neighborhood and avoid an unwanted confrontation. "Where to?"

"Your place," he said. "Talking about this would upset Walter."

"Was that a friend of yours?" she asked, eyes on the road.

Peter shook his head.

"Only talked to him once before in my life, and that was to leave the satchel with him. I paid him a thousand to hold onto the bag for me. He probably thought I was never gonna show up."

Twenty minutes later, she opened the door to her apartment. Peter placed the satchel on her kitchen table, and they shed their coats and boots.

"Coffee?" Olivia asked, already knowing the answer. Without waiting for his answer, she filled two cups and reheated them in the microwave, then joined him at the kitchen table, handing him a steaming cup.

Peter took a sip before placing the cup on the table. He gestured toward the bag. "Open it."

Olivia did so eagerly, unzipping the satchel to gaze upon its contents. Then she looked at Peter, and at his nod of assent began, taking out the various items and lining them up on the table.

"A 9mm Beretta pistol...with two spare magazines," she determined. She placed the gun and ammunition to the right side of the table after checking the safety.

"A flask of..." She uncapped the metal bottle and sniffed, wrinkled her nose. "...cheap vodka."

She pulled out a bundle of documents, held collectively by a salmon-colored rubber band.

"Fake ID papers; passport, driver's license, social security card. All in the name of one Paul Rook."

A bundle of cloth emerged next – blue jeans, boxer shorts, long sleeved pullover and a hooded sweatshirt, held together by a belt wrapped around them. She placed it next to the identity papers.

Next was a collection of plastic cards, held together by another rubber band. "Three prepaid debit cards – how much on them?"

"A thousand each." Peter smiled at something. "Of course, earlier it was a money clip. Gotta change with the times."

Next to last out of the bag was a book; it was obviously well read, for its corners were well rounded. She looked at the title.

"Bobby Fischer: My Memorable Sixty Games." She placed the book on the table.

The last thing she pulled out was the only thing that really surprised her. It was an envelope, crumpled and worn. She looked at the elegant writing in blue ink on the front. It was addressed to Peter Bishop.

From Elizabeth Bishop.

She wordlessly put it in a place of reverence on the table and looked at Peter.

"Alright," he began. "Each of these things has a reason for their inclusion in the bag. What do you want me to tell you about first?" He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee.

Olivia looked at the piles on the table. She already knew what she wanted to know about last – the letter. So what should be first? On impulse, she held up the flask, then placed it back on the table.

Peter smirked, then began his tale.


	2. The Flask

Peter Bishop stared at the pile of soon-to-be worthless coins and bills at the center of the table, wondering if he wasn't the rube in this poker game; the Russian sitting across from him, the Kurd to his right, and the Turk to his left certainly thought he was.

It was the dawn of a new era in Iraq, and all the dinars bearing the face of Saddam would officially lose all monetary value the moment the sun rose. So of course, Peter found himself in the backroom of an empty coffee house at four in the morning, gambling with three shady guys who wanted to foist their worthless money on the stupid American.

The goal here was to lose – or if your pride couldn't handle that, to change the rules of the game; right now, Peter was winning, which meant that he was losing.

The burly Russian across from him gave a toothy smile, showing off a shiny gold incisor. He wore a stained wife beater, and the number of tattoos across his arms and chest told Peter he was some low-level member of the Russian mob.

The Russian laid down his cards down on the table with trembling hands, showing a pair of nines. Peter stared at the Russian's hands for a second; he then cocked an eyebrow and put his own cards down.

A pair of aces.

The Turk and the Kurd – who had each folded already – tittered and talked across the table in Farsi.

"My bad luck, comrade," the Russian said in heavily accented English. "I'm almost out of money."

He grinned again, almost blinding Peter with the reflection from his gold tooth.

"Isn't that a shame?" Peter said morosely. He gathered his earnings – a large pile of Saddam-era coins and bills – and added them to his ever-growing pile.

Peter glanced at his watch and realized that if he going to get rid of the pile of dinars, he would have to start losing now. As the Kurd gathered the cards and started shuffling, he reached into his rear pocket and brought out the flask, uncapped it and took a sip, gasped, capped it and placed it on the table in front of him.

"Vodka!" he muttered across the table to the Russian.

The Russian looked like a hound at picnic. Over the course of the next hand – which Peter actually managed to lose, by simple luck of the draw – the Russians eyes were constantly drawn to the flask.

Peter gathered the cards with a theatrical flourish. Snatching up one of the 100 dinar coins, he danced it across the knuckles of his right hand as he cut and shuffled the deck with his left at the same time.

"Gentlemen," he said in Farsi, startling the Turk and the Kurd, who had believed their crosstalk to be unintelligible. "It's almost sunrise, and all the dinars on this table are going to be worthless. So, to make the last hand of the game actually mean something, I say we all put something of value into the pot."

With that, Peter placed the flask of vodka in the center of the table.

The Turk and the Kurd looked at each other across the table, confirming Peter's suspicions about this game. Fortunately he'd already switched the deck of cards. Whatever scam they were pulling – marked cards, probably – wasn't going to work this hand.

The Turk produced a cheap pocket watch and put it next to the flask. The Russian added a pair of sunglasses. The Kurd pulled a small dagger out of his boot and tossed it on the table.

Peter dealt the cards. When the Turk picked his hand up, he cursed loudly, tossed the cards back on the table, and left the room, continuing to curse.

"I guess we can take that as a fold," Peter said.

The Russian put his small pile of dinars into the center of the table, followed by the Kurd and Peter. By unspoken accord, they showed their cards simultaneously. The Russian won with a full house, and immediately plucked the flask up and took a long swig, ignoring his pile of money and cheap trinkets.

And before they realized that the slick new cards they had played the last hand with weren't from the original deck, Peter had already left the coffee house.

"You dangled vodka in front of an alcoholic to win a card game?"

Olivia was both amused and appalled.

"I don't actually know that he was an alcoholic," Peter objected. "Maybe he was just thirsty. And besides, I did it to lose a card game!"

Olivia shook her head, making it plain she didn't believe his story.

"Well, you asked," he defended. "There are a lot of places in the world where alcohol is worth more than money. It sure was in Iraq back in '04."

Peter got up from the table, grabbing both of their cups and refilled them; he gave Olivia her cup back while sitting down with his own.

"I wish that were the worst thing I'd done," he said sadly. "I really was a different person before you blackmailed me out of Iraq."

Olivia gazed at him curiously for a few seconds before her beautiful green eyes flickered to the table.

"Okay," she said. "Now tell me about the book."


	3. The Book

Edward and Margaret Kerne were a Canadian, retired, well-off couple, and the type of tourists who sought nothing less than to really feel the pulse of a foreign country. They didn't sign up for guided tours of the approved tourist spots; they wanted to get off the beaten path, talk to the locals, turn over the rocks to see what was crawling underneath. And they were such a nice, lovely pair that Peter hadn't even considered nicking Ed's wallet and blaming it on the gypsies, instead acting as their unofficial Berlin tour guide.

"Peter!" Ed said, clapping him on the back. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us to Prague?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't speak Czech. I wouldn't be very useful to you there."

Margaret spoke up. "Nonsense! You have a certain way with people, and that's worth more than speaking the language. And we'll pay your way!"

Peter was seriously tempted to sponge off the Kerne's for at least a few more days, yet he could only shake his head.

"Sorry, Margaret. I have some things I have to take care of here in Berlin. I've been putting them off while I showed you around, and I really can't stall any longer. I've really enjoyed our time, though."

"I don't suppose we can give you a little tip for your trouble?" Ed said as he peered at Peter through his thick eyeglasses.

Peter did his best to look embarrassed. It always helped.

"I'm not so rich that I can turn down a tip, Ed."

Ed nodded, pulled out his wallet, and handed over a shockingly large wad of cash.

"Thanks, Ed," Peter managed to stammer.

"You've earned it," Ed clasped his hand. "And a piece of advice? You should be in college. You're too smart to be wandering aimlessly. I don't know what your situation is at home, but..."

Ed trailed off when he saw Peter frown. He couldn't know it, but he sounded just like Walter at that moment.

"What could I learn there?" Peter said with a smirk.

Out of corner of his eye, Peter noticed a very pretty young woman.

She was about his own age, dressed in a sweatshirt and shorts, wearing hiking boots and a backpack – in short, a typical college girl on vacation. She busied herself in eying him up and down, trying to be subtle about it. He caught her eye over Ed's shoulder and gave her his most arrogant smirk, which was guaranteed to either earn him a phone number or a slap across the face.

Peter exchanged hugs and words of gratitude with the Kerne's, stashed his cash in the money clip he kept in his sock, then went off to complete his errands for the day, which mainly consisted in mailing a letter to his native Boston and spending a little of his newly earned money.

Before arriving in Europe, Peter had devised a way to keep stay in touch with his mother back in Boston without having to compromise his mobility. When he would arrive in a new town, he would mail a letter with the address of the youth hostel he'd be staying at; Mom's reply usually arrived within the next week. Such was the accord they had struck, and it had been working fine for both of them since the summer.

Peter had been storing the letter in the back pocket of his jeans for the past week. He felt a little guilty about not mailing it sooner, but he had been busy with showing the Kerne's around and finding places to play piano for tips at night. After finding a postal office, he mailed the letter after paying too much for first class postage. Then, he immediately crossed the street to enter a used book store he'd had his eye on since he got to Berlin.

Peter had taught himself how to learn at an early age. All he needed to learn any subject he was interested in was a good book and someone to answer questions.

After browsing the stacks of the musty shop for twenty minutes, he found a worn book on chess by the legendary Bobby Fischer; improving his chess game should keep him occupied for a few weeks, he figured. As he paid for the book at the proprietor's desk he heard the front door open behind him.

"Your German is excellent," a timid, female voice said from behind him. "But you're not German, are you?"

Peter turned to see that the girl he spotted earlier had followed him into the bookshop. Her amber eyes had a glint to them that attracted him immediately.

Peter nodded, putting on his most over-the-top smile before extending his hand.

"Peter."

She took the offered hand. "Annika."

Annika giggled when he made a show of kissing her hand.

"You can try to guess where I'm from while we take a walk in the park."

Upon hearing the truth, Annika twisted her face as if she'd just taken a big bite out of a juicy lemon.

"American?" she exclaimed. "No, you can't be!"

"Why not?" Peter laughed. He squeezed her hand in his.

The two of them had been getting to know each other for the past two hours, wandering the paths in the park. After the first hour, Annika had slipped her tiny hand into his, casual as could be.

"You're too..." She searched for an appropriate word. "...Worldly."

She pulled him to a stop and checked her watch.

"I have to get to class. I would like to see you again..."

She trailed off, looking up at him hopefully.

"I tell you what," he said. "I'm playing piano for tips tonight. Come see me."

He wrote the address of the cafe in her notebook. She stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and then Peter settled down on a nearby park bench with the Fischer book. He grinned at two old men playing chess at a stone table nearby. A few days – maybe a week – and he would be kicking their asses.

The next week was bliss.

In the morning he would walk to the park and find a bench within sight of the old men playing chess. He would study the Fischer book until Annika showed up, and they would spend the afternoon together, walking the streets of Berlin hand in hand. At night, he would play piano for tips at the small cafe that had accepted him, and the small crowd that gathered grew with each performance. Annika would always come into the cafe about nine and listen from the back of the room, her amber eyes shining at him as she sipped her coffee.

On the third night, he had a lusty make-out session with Annika in alley behind the cafe when he stopped for the night, their bodies pressed together, one of her slender legs hooked behind his.

On the fourth night, she joined him in his bed at the youth hostel.

It was one of the best times he could remember having.

So of course, his luck had to change.

"Checkmate."

The old man's sky blue eyes gazed at him from across the chessboard, the barest hint of an amused twinkle in them.

Peter frantically scanned the board, trying to find a mistake in the old man's strategy he could exploit; unable to detect any, he sighed and tipped his king. The old man he had intended to be his first victim had kicked his ass in less than five minutes.

"My name is Robert," he said, standing up to shake Peter's hand. "I'm here every morning. Feel free to come and play."

Peter walked through the crowd to the small corner table Annika had commandeered. The piano player's girlfriend must have some sort of influence, because she always managed to get a table for two within sight of the piano, no matter how crowded the place got.

Annika slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He was taking a break from playing, and his fingers absently tapped a melody on her lower back. She studied his face.

"What's wrong, Peter?" she said into his ear.

He shook his head.

"I'm just worried about Mom. I should have gotten a letter by now."

"Checkmate."

It had been two weeks since he had started playing, and Robert had just sent his king running around the board yet again. Peter had begun to suspect that Robert was a genius at the level of his own father; it was ironic, then, that Peter had started playing Robert because he reminded him of a nonagenarian version of Walter.

Peter tipped his king. He swallowed his pride before he spoke. "What am I doing wrong?"

Peter could hear the frustration expressed in his own voice. Robert chuckled and tapped his cane against the table.

"Nothing. You're just not looking at the board in the best way. You're seeing individual pieces and the squares they cover; that's too much effort. Next time we play, try to see the space you influence as a whole, and project it over time."

Peter shook his head. "You sound a lot like my father."

Robert nodded absently, then continued.

"Besides, I can see you're distracted. If something is bothering you that much, maybe you should do something about it?"

Peter nodded, got up and walked away, too distracted to even say goodbye. When he looked back, Robert was talking to a man wearing a grey suit and a fedora.

Peter lay awake in the small, creaky bed with a naked, dozing Annika curled at his side, staring at the ceiling while hoping he could quiet his racing thoughts and get some sleep before the sun rose.

For all the advantages in having a genius level IQ, his brain had one great disadvantage.

He couldn't turn it off.

And that inevitably led to nights like this, when his brain picked a topic and raced after it, following it down dark and twisting paths.

Currently, his brain was obsessing over two topics. One was the fact that he hadn't received a letter from his mother in over a month. Elizabeth had a drinking problem, but Peter couldn't bring himself to call his mother an alcoholic. He could count on one hand the number of nights she'd gone to bed sober in his teen years. Of course, having lived with Walter, then being forced to raise a too smart for his own good son on her own, Peter didn't blame her at all. In fact, by the time he'd left, he had convinced himself that he was a burden to her, and that leaving would be the best for everyone concerned.

Now...he wasn't so sure. Doubt worried at his mind like a puppy playing with a stuffed sock.

The second train of thought involved his relationship with the woman at his side; if it could even be called that.

As it stood, he didn't really know the precise nature feelings for her. He was certainly fond of her, and felt something in his chest whenever she smiled at him across a crowded room. She was a friend and a lover, but he wasn't sure if he wanted more than that.

Annika stirred beside him, as if reading his thoughts. "Cold," she drawled in a demanding whisper.

Peter smiled in the dark, rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around her, skin against skin. She buried her face in the space between his neck and shoulder and sighed contentedly.

It was fucking cold; whoever ran that particular hostel hadn't paid the heating bill. Their breath misted the air.

"Peter..." she whispered in his ear. "I'm going to see my parents in Stuttgart next week. Would you like to come?"

Peter kissed her cheek, and answered honestly and obliviously. "No."

"Peter!" Olivia gasped in horror.

"I was being honest!" Peter objected. "I didn't want to go see her parents! I could barely handle my own!"

"That girl was obviously in love with you! She'd been following you around like a puppy. And you broke her heart with one two-letter word!"

Years later and far wiser, Peter honestly couldn't think of a good defense. He shrugged.

"Seriously, Peter, that was heartless."

Olivia gave him a silent, emerald glare, then got up and refilled her coffee, taking her anger out on the sugar packets and not offering to refill his. She sat down across from him and took a moment to compose herself.

"So what happened next?" Olivia asked.

Peter grimaced. "She got violent."

Annika went from post-coital cuddling to beating the shit out of him in less than ten seconds.

Reeling from the pain in his knee-bruised testicles, Peter tried in vain to shield himself from the rain of blows while simultaneously pulling on some clothes. Of course, everyone else in the hostel had to make things worse by pointing and laughing as the audience to this spectacle.

Somehow, he made it down the stairs while pulling his pants on, hopping from foot to foot, stair to stair. He reached the street level landing, pulled on his shirt, and shrugged into his coat. Before he could open the door, the guy on duty behind the front desk called his name.

"Peter Bishop? You have a phone call. From the States."

Peter raised an eyebrow, but followed behind-the-desk-guy into the small office, taking the phone from him.

It could only be his mother.

"Uh, hi, mom!" he said cheerily, expecting to hear his mother's slight brogue.

"Peter? Son?"

The voice came hesitantly, almost a whisper. It took him a minute to recognize the voice. He tried to picture the speaker – his father – but couldn't match the voice to the face.

"Walter?" Peter asked, his own voice almost a whisper.

"Yes!" said Walter, his voice raising. "It's your father, Walter Bishop!"

Peter flinched away from the sudden increase in volume, then steeled himself to reply.

"What is it, Walter?" he asked, his voice cold.

"It's...your mother. Elizabeth Bishop. There was...a car accident...I'm sorry to have to tell you this..."

There were more words after that, delivered in the quavering voice that he couldn't match to the Walter he knew. Peter heard them, but they held no meaning, receding to mere background noise. His legs weakened and he sank to the floor, then leaned his back against the desk and pulled his knees to his chest.

When he emerged from his daze minutes later, Annika was crouched next to him, her right hand holding his left, her left running through his hair.

"I'm so sorry, Peter," she began. "Is there anything..."

Peter struggled to his feet.

"I have to..." he stammered. "I have to go."

Peter didn't belong in Berlin, but he didn't belong in Boston, either.

He had never belonged anywhere.

Peter shook his way out of Annika's embrace and ran out onto the street. He had nowhere else to go, yet he had the sudden, primal need to be anywhere other than here.

Peter was on a train to Munich that evening. He never saw Annika again.

Olivia's compassion was one of the many things that drew Peter to her; that ability to feel for others, draw the hurt out and give relief, even if only for a little while. But it was disconcerting to see his own buried pain reflected in Olivia's jade eyes. He looked away.

"Peter..."

She moved her chair closer, touched the back of his hand.

"I'm okay, 'Livia."

She moved forward, and he accepted the embrace gladly. They held each other for a long moment, then she kissed his cheek, and leaned back, turning practical.

"Sandwiches for lunch?" she asked. At his nod, she stood and moved to the refrigerator. "And if you still feel like it... you can tell me about the gun after we're done."


	4. The Gun

Peter finished his sandwich, pushed the plate away and sighed. He brushed his fingers across the back of Olivia's hand to get her attention.

"First thing you have to understand...Edina wasn't the first time I've killed someone. I'm sorry I let you believe that."

His azure eyes begged her to let him explain.

Olivia nodded. "Go on."

Peter King sat in a small back office at the Royal Bank of Hong Kong, sipping tea and smiling contentedly. He watched the banking gnomes counting and depositing the cash he'd brought back in his leather satchel from mainland China.

The money had been earned working as a "fixer" for Western corporations wishing to do business on the mainland. Peter knew – or could find out – which officials had to be bribed or possibly blackmailed, and saw to it that the operations of his clients went smoothly. It was a risky enterprise, but as he well knew by that point, risk had its rewards, monetary and otherwise.

The Chief Banking Gnome, a Mister Yue, completed the count and finished the paperwork, which was presented to Peter with his own broad smile.

"Two million, one hundred fifty thousand dollars, Mister King. Your funds will be available at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Is there anything else we can do for you?"

The sum was in Hong Kong dollars, of course, but the American equivalent would still be enough to pay off his debt to Big Eddie and take a vacation for a few months, in a tropical country with a good exchange rate; Peter was thinking Costa Rica might be nice this time of year.

"No, Mister Yue," Peter said, standing and shaking his hand. "I have some other business to attend to. You've been excellent, though."

Exiting the bank, Peter fought the urge to go skipping down the street. Paying off his gambling debt was a symbolic turning point in his life; it meant he was a free man again. He wouldn't owe anything to anyone but himself.

"Peter!" The yell came from behind, about a block distant, then again, closer. "Peter!"

Peter kept walking, steadfastly ignoring the fact that somebody was running after him shouting his name. Such a thing never boded well. He ducked into a side alley, risking a glance back at his pursuer, before pressing himself against one wall. When the diminutive man entered the alley, Peter grabbed him by the shirt front and literally hoisted him into the air so he could look at him eye to eye.

"What the hell, Trang?" Peter growled, in Cantonese.

Then he dropped Pham Van Trang, Vietnamese immigrant to Hong Kong, small time crook and old acquaintance to his feet.

"Please, Peter!" Trang begged. "It's Hanh!"

Hanh was Trang's little sister, who had come to Hong Kong with Trang ten years ago; she had to be about fourteen now. Peter sighed. "Come on. I'll buy you lunch."

Peter King sat in an expensive restaurant, sipping tea and eating while listening to his friend Trang detail how his life had gone to shit in the time Peter had resided on the mainland.

"...After you left, I decided to expand the restaurant," he said. "So I borrowed some money. The place did pretty well. Well enough, in fact, that I decided I wanted to open up another place. But the bank wouldn't give a loan to buy a new place. So..."

Trang hesitated. Peter gestured to a nearby waitress for more tea.

"Let me guess. You went to the mob?" Peter had heard this story before.

Trang nodded. "The new place did well for a few months. But then, a big new place opened up across the street and started taking my customers...and then the fucking economy..."

Peter nodded in sympathy; the shit economy had affected his line of work, too.

"Long story short... The new place is going under, and the Triads want either their money or their collateral."

Peter shrugged. "That's easy. Give them the restaurant, Trang. It sucks, I know, but sometimes you have to cash out and start over."

Tranh swallowed. "The restaurant isn't the collateral."

"He didn't!" Olivia interrupted.

She was leaning forward, hands clasped on the table, watching Peter's face as he told the story.

Peter nodded. "He did."

"He used his little sister as collateral? On a loan from the mob?"

Peter sighed. "It gets worse."

Peter shook his head, leaned over the table to whisper. "Damn it, Trang! I don't want to be that guy they tell stories about, the Westerner who went up against the Triads in fucking Hong Kong. It never ends well for that guy."

After calling Trang every swear word he could think of, in every language he knew – drawing amused glances from the other restaurant patrons – Peter sat back to consider the situation.

It really wasn't his problem. What was it to him if an acquaintance sold his little sister into slavery? He had nothing to do with the situation. And he had a plane to catch in the morning to pay off his own debt.

"How much do you owe?" he snapped. "And when?"

"A million," Trang whispered. "Tomorrow at midnight."

Fuck.

No way would Peter be able to pay off his debt to Big Eddie if he used it for this. He asked their waitress for something stronger than tea – vodka – and sat back to consider the situation from as many angles as he could.

Trang leaned forward, deception evident in his manner.

"If you do this for me, I'll owe you everything, my friend. I know I don't have much now, but you know I'll make it big someday."

Trang was puffing himself up, trying to make himself bigger than he was. Confidence is infectious, a tool in the con mans arsenal. Peter was grimly amused that Trang was trying it on him. Then, watching Trang, it hit him. He knew Trang, and he knew how to read people, and how to deceive them.

Peter scowled.

"You knew," he said. "Somehow, you knew I'd be making a deposit today. You've been talking to somebody I've been talking to."

Recoiling in surprise, Trang covered it well, but Peter saw that his accusations had hit really close to the mark. Then Peter put two and two together.

"You little shit, Trang! You knew I'd have money. You knew I'd want to help, and you knew I'd have to get out of Hong Kong right after. You're never going to repay me."

Trang's eyes were wide in shock, his scheme exposed, seemingly by magic. He started stuttering.

Peter knew he should have cut this short, hopped a plane to Los Angeles and wired the money to himself tomorrow. But the gambler and the white knight aspects of his personality conspired against him. There was a fourteen year old's life at stake, and Peter was more than confident that he could earn it all back; though of course, it would take some time.

So to the shock of both Trang and himself, he spoke.

"It's my money, Trang. If we do this, we do it my way."

Peter's chivalry and foolishness didn't extend to actually meeting the Triads himself, bag of cash in hand.

That was Trang's job, of course.

They had spent the next day preparing. Peter withdrew the money he'd lovingly deposited the day before, to the disappointment of the banking gnomes; following this, he had retrieved a bugout bag he once left with an elderly couple in Kowloon district. Together, they surveyed the meeting place – a crossing of back alleys in Kowloon – to find a good place for Peter to hide while he covered Trang.

So Peter found himself hiding under a pile of trash in a side alley, with a good view of the spot for the meet and a World War Two vintage .45 automatic in his waistband, two spare magazines in the pockets of his light jacket.

The full moon overhead gave him plenty of light to watch the criminal proceedings. With any luck, Trang would give the Triads the money bag, they would count it, give him Hanh, and Peter would slink away, to board a plane to Sydney the next morning.

Of course, luck can go either way at any time.

Peter watched as three guys, one dragging the girl by one arm, meet Trang at the appointed joining of alleys. Things seemed to be going well, until halfway through the count. An argument started. Voices were raised, hands gesticulated wildly. Peter pulled the pistol from his waistband, sneaking along the wall toward them...

"Your friend stole some of the money," Olivia said. "Didn't he?"

Peter nodded. "I didn't know until I counted it afterward."

"Bastard!" Olivia muttered.

Peter's eyes darkened. "Don't speak ill of the dead."

Peter shouldn't have been as shocked as he was when one of the Triads cut short the argument by pulling out a small pistol, placing it against Trang's forehead and blowing his brains out. He watched in horror as one goon clamped a hand over Hanh's mouth to muffle her scream, another grabbed the money bag and they stalked off.

He'd spent the afternoon wandering the alleys around the meeting site. The moon was high and he knew just where to hide to cut them off. Peter hurried there and hid in the shadows. He let the foursome pass him by, then stepped out of the alley, placed the muzzle of his .45 against the back of the head of the Triad holding Hanh, and pulled the trigger.

Peter put two rounds in the back of the goon holding the money bag. The third guy had the best survival instincts he had ever seen. He simply ran for his life, without looking back, saving Peter the trouble of killing him.

Peter returned the pistol to his waistband, snatched the money bag up, grabbed Hanh's hand and pulled her along with him, trying to ignore how it looked: a foreigner dragging a sobbing Vietnamese teenager through the alleyways towards his hotel.

The next morning, Peter King walked back into the Royal Bank of Hong Kong, carrying the money bag and asked for Mister Yue. When he was escorted into the Chief Banking Gnome's office, he asked for something Yue did not expect.

"I want to set up a trust fund for a young lady."

Peter was aboard a plane for Sydney that afternoon.

And so long as she kept out of trouble, Pham Van Hanh was set for life.

Peter stared at Olivia, waiting for her reaction. She avoided his gaze a few minutes, considering all he'd told her. Then she smiled at him.

"You did the best you could, Peter. It was a terrible situation...and you actually made something good come out of it. Have you talked to Hanh since then?"

Peter shook his head. "No. I figured I would just jinx her if I did. I haven't been back to Hong Kong, either."

"What about Big Eddie?" she asked. "Did you take care of your debt?"

"Yes," Peter replied. He didn't elaborate.

Olivia glanced at the items on the table, grabbed the small stack of debit cards and pushed them across the table.

"Tell me about these. You said it was a money clip, before."


	5. The Money Clip

"Jason!" Peter Bishop yelled down the crowded high school hallway.

He waited in patience, slouching against his locker and playing air piano as Jason Shipp gradually extricated himself from the congregation of jocks and came over to talk.

"I need my money, Jason," Peter said when the bigger teen approached.

"I'll have it for you Friday, Peter."

Peter shook his head. "No. I need it by the end of the day, or no more math for you."

The hulking football player turned red. "Peter...if you don't...I'll..."

Peter rolled his eyes, displaying no fear. "You'll do what? Beat me into doing your math for you? We both know no one else in this school will put up with your shitty attitude."

The jock huffed and puffed for a few minutes while Peter turned his back on him and fiddled with things in his locker, hoping he'd have the chance to use his homemade taser on him. When he turned around, Jason held out fifty dollars for him.

"Pleasure doing business," Peter said.

And just like that, Peter hit the savings goal he'd been working toward for the past year.

"You're home early!" Peter said to his mother when he walked through the apartment door. He leaned into the kitchen and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then he dropped his bag of books on the floor in the middle of the living room and tossed his jacket onto the nearest armchair, earning a frown of disapproval from Elizabeth; she was always one for order.

"So are you," she noted, trying to ignore the mess her son had made. "What happened? Why aren't you at piano practice?"

"I got bored, pulled the fire alarm, and got sent home," Peter said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Peter! You have to stop doing...random things just because you're..." Elizabeth broke off her tirade when she saw his face, and shook her head in exasperation.

"Kidding!" Peter laughed. "I was kidding!"

"Ugh." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Another year and you'll be MIT's problem. Get cleaned up and we'll eat dinner. And please, pick your bag up from the floor!"

Truth be told, getting a full scholarship from MIT had been the last straw for Peter. He certainly got good grades. Not as good as they could have been, but they were nonetheless decent. The real reason he got the scholarship was because he was the son of Walter Bishop. Disgraced and insane, his father was still a notable graduate of that august institution, and Peter could have gotten in had he been a slope-headed Morlock.

Peter's tastes and talents were wide and varied – languages, piano, electronics, engines. On paper, he looked like a model candidate for the engineering school, but Peter couldn't bear the prospect of staying in Boston for another decade as he got an education and established himself in his profession.

So this was the night he would leave.

Peter pretended to sleep until midnight, well past when Mom should have finished her nightcap and gone to bed. He got up and dressed quietly – jeans, tee shirt and a hoodie. He retrieved the money clip that contained the three thousand dollars he had saved over the last year doing math homework for dumb jocks and put it in his sock.

He grabbed his duffel out of his closet, which had been pre-packed the night before with everything he had thought he would need. Knowing he would absolutely need something to read on the trip, he examined the volumes on his bookshelves, and chuckled in knowing irony when his eyes fell on his worn copy of Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. He stuffed it into the duffel bag, shouldered it, and quietly made his way to the kitchen, where he left a letter, written the night before, explaining all of this to his mother.

Most of Peter's memories of his childhood were a blur. He remembered being ill for a long time, but not any specific circumstances. He remembered Walter slowly going insane, culminating in the accident at the lab and his trial and incarceration. Things hadn't gotten better in the Bishop household after Walter had been institutionalized. Obviously, it was Peter that was the problem. He didn't belong here. Somewhere out there, maybe he could find a place where he did.

An hour later, he was on a bus to New York. He never saw Elizabeth – at least, that iteration of her – again.

Olivia clasped his hand and squeezed gently.

"You weren't the cause of any of the problems in that household, Peter," she said.

Peter smiled grimly. "Well, actually, I kind of was; just not in the way I thought at the time. It would have been swell if they'd explained things to me before it got to that point."

Olivia flinched a little, guilt clouding her features. "Peter, I'm–"

Peter stopped her by touching her lips, then leaned forward and kissed her gently.

"Walter shouldn't have put that burden on you, either. His judgement is always suspect when it comes to me. We should always keep that in mind."

Peter squeezed her hand and smiled. "What do you want to hear about next?"

Olivia smirked.

"Another trip into your shady past." She moved the small stack of identity papers over to him. "Tell me about Paul Rook."


	6. The Papers

Paul Thomas Rook was born on September 18th, 1978 and died on October 14th, 2008, at the age of thirty. He was laid to rest in Vine Lake Cemetery in Medfield, MA. That should have been the end of the story, but he was reborn – on paper, at least – in the last week of October, 2008.

"Perfect," Peter muttered to himself as he stood next to the grave marker, huddled in his light jacket against the steady, cold drizzle. He quietly paid his respects, leaving a small bouquet of white roses he'd bought back in Boston that morning.

Paul Rook had gone to Boston College to graduate in four years, after which he began working as a small town accountant, doing taxes for small town businesses. There was absolutely nothing notable about him, until he was killed by a hit and run driver.

Death notices in the United States were still in the Dark Ages. If the right units of government don't talk to each other, people are born but never officially die. The undead populate the voting rolls, and still draw welfare or social security checks. It's a situation frequently exploited by clever criminals, and sometimes by the government itself.

Peter still wasn't sure about Fringe Division. The cases themselves were interesting, but being forced to play babysitter to his insane father every day was grating on him. He liked working with Dunham – probably more than was good for him – but he knew Broyles wasn't telling them the whole story, even to her. The paranoid boy scout in the back of his mind told him it could all blow up, and soon, and it was best to be prepared for the possibility in advance.

So Peter needed to put together another bugout bag.

Given that he was dealing with the FBI, he couldn't use one of his usual aliases, and in all likelihood he'd have to leave the name Peter Bishop in Boston.

Good riddance.

Most of the items for the bag were easy to obtain, only requiring money and time. He bought them one at a time on his supply trips so they wouldn't all show up on one bill.

Peter purchased the 9mm Beretta pistol – undoubtedly stolen, as it appeared to be of military issue, but serial numbers etched away with acid – from a guy who had a small, unadvertised shop run out of a storage facility.

The last things he needed were identity papers. Peter bought local small town newspapers and combed the obituaries patiently, waiting for someone to die who was the right age and gender and wasn't well known. It kept him occupied late at night while Walter sang showtunes or worked on his latest culinary obsession: tequila flavored ice cream.

"Excuse me," asked a melodic voice from behind him, "But if you don't mind my asking, how did you know Paul?"

Peter turned around slowly and looked at the woman. She was of average height and build, with brown, curly hair – exacerbated by the drizzle, no doubt – and eyes behind glasses. Librarian type, he surmised. Perhaps a secretary or schoolteacher. She was huddled in a long raincoat.

Girlfriend, Peter assumed. This was a both a danger and an opportunity.

"I knew him at Boston College." Peter pulled the obit from his jacket pocket, and gestured with it to emphasize his words. "I didn't see the notice until last week. This is the first I've been able to get away from Boston." He shrugged, putting the scrap of newspaper back into his pocket. "I haven't talked to him in five years."

"He didn't have many friends." The woman looks him up and down, curiosity evident. "I just wanted to say hello."

Peter put on his most disarming smile, the one that got him places he shouldn't be allowed in, and held out his hand. "Peter Bishop."

The ghost of a smile flitted its way across her features, and she shook his hand. "Lena Hayes."

"Listen..." Peter does his best to look a little nervous. "Do you want to get a cup of coffee? We could reminisce."

She looked at him warily, before biting her lip and nodding.

Two hours and several cups of coffee later, Peter had told Lena the bare details of his existence – a little of his adventures overseas, worked for the government at Harvard University, doing things he couldn't provide details about, cared for his father in his spare time, told a few fictitious tales about his days at Boston College, and gotten a lot of details about Paul Rook in return.

"I just don't know what to do about his accounting business. He has tons of paperwork from his clients sitting in his office. They're going to need that information, and soon."

Rook had died without a will. Everything he owned would go into probate, his clients would be forced to deal with the court to get their paperwork back.

Peter nodded sympathetically. It was going to be a mess. And another opportunity.

"You know Lena," Peter said quietly, "I don't have an accounting degree, but I am good with numbers, and I have a lot of business experience. If you have the keys to his office, I could get in there and sort things out before the court gets involved. It'd be easier for everyone."

Lena looked at him, stirring another packet of sugar into her coffee.

"I don't know. I've only just met you."

Peter nodded. "I understand. Here's my number...feel free to call me if you change your mind."

He scribbled it on a napkin, handed it across the table to her. He insisted on paying for their coffee before walking to his rental car and driving back to Boston.

Peter wasn't surprised when he got the call that weekend.

On Sunday, he left Walter at the lab in Astrid's care and drove out to Medfield to spend the afternoon sorting through Paul Rook's papers. He had Rook's social security number within the first hour, but he hated not doing a thorough job at anything, so sat down to do the job he'd agreed to.

"That's funny," Peter said out loud hours later as he sipped cold coffee.

He sat at Rook's desk at the office, surrounded by stacks of documents he was in the process of sorting through. Every stack had a sheet of paper on top, with notes for the owner of the information.

Rook was considered an excellent accountant. He got all his clients work done on time, and accurately. It explained why he had over a hundred clients in this little town.

But for a skilled accountant, he was bad at basic math. Every account was off, just by a little bit. But with all the accounts he had, it added up to quite a bit of money - Peter made an educated guess of about ten thousand dollars a year.

On a hunch, he jimmied open the locked cabinet that contained Rook's personal financial information. Another hour looking at those documents and Peter had it figured out.

Rook was telling each of his clients they owed the government just a little bit more than they actually did, and pocketing the difference. Come his retirement from the accounting business, he would have a nice, fat bank account worth about half a million, plus interest.

Peter groaned and put his head down on the desk in frustration. The irony that the dead guy whose identity Peter wanted to steal was actually a criminal himself wasn't lost on him, but this was a real problem.

He closed up the office, got into his rental car and drove back to Boston. Along the way he thought about the situation. The way he saw it, he had three options.

He could appropriate the money himself. It would be enough to pay off Big Eddie, and it wasn't as if he'd stolen it. He could wash his hands of the whole situation and let the probate court sort it out; of course, that would mean he'd have to search for a different identity to steal. Or he could quietly return the money to Rook's clients.

Peter pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, shut off the engine and sat quietly. He really didn't know what to do.

So he did something he hadn't felt the need to do since high school – he asked somebody for advice.

He fished his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, hit speed dial number 4.

"Hi, Charlie? This is Peter. Listen, I've got a situation I want to talk to you about..."

"So how much money are we talking about here?" Charlie asked.

Peter looked at the older man across the pile of empty dishes on the table, the remains of a Denny's late night breakfast.

"About fifty thousand. Could be a little bit more."

Peter gestured to the waitress to bring them more coffee.

"Hmm. Well, it's not like we can dig him up and throw him in jail. If we take it to the authorities it'll be years before his clients see their money."

Peter nods at him over the table. "So give it back? No cops involved?"

"Yeah. Just give it back. It's the right thing to do." Charlie looked across the table at him, eyebrow raised.

"What?" Peter asked.

"How'd you get involved with this? Why didn't you call Olivia?" Charlie queried.

"I know his girlfriend. And..." Peter shrugged.

Charlie smiled sympathetically.

"She's got you hooked, and she didn't even have to try."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"I think you law enforcement types are rubbing off on me."

Peter didn't tell Lena about her boyfriend defrauding his clients. It would serve no useful purpose. He returned the money anonymously over the next few weeks while at the same time appropriating Rook's identity to use himself, should the need arise.

Using the social security number he'd gotten, he obtained a birth certificate, driver's license and passport, all in the name of Thomas Rook. He stashed the papers in the bag he selected and paid a poor retiree a thousand to hold the bag for him.

And he didn't think about the bag for the next three years.

Peter accepted another cup of coffee from Olivia, watched her as she sat across the table from him.

Olivia looked a little sad. "Charlie was a good man. I miss him."

"That he was," Peter agreed. "And I miss him too."

Olivia cocked an eyebrow at him. "You should give seminars at Quantico."

Peter laughed and shook his head.

"I'm serious, Peter. With your experience...you should at least consider it."

Peter shook his head. "This is for your ears only."

Olivia nodded, and glanced at the table. Only the clothing and letter hadn't been discussed.

"So, what about the pile of clothes?"


	7. The Clothes

The bridge between universes trembled, shook, and finally shattered, flinging Peter backward to collide with the grille of the Black Ford SUV. In the split second before he lost consciousness, it all clicked, his mind making connections in reverse order.

The FBI agent that disintegrated before his eyes, leaving Peter alone on the bridge unharmed.

Olivia not being able to look at him since Jacksonville.

Walter being distant and nervous the past few weeks.

Mom having killed herself.

Walter going insane.

It all made sense, and it burned.

The darkness took him.

Peter's cellphone chimed, waking him from dreamless slumber.

It was two in the morning, five hours since he spoke to Walter at the hospital,

I am not your son.

He groaned, and with a massive effort, sat up and pulled heart monitor leads off his chest and the IV needle out of his arm, clenching his jaw at the twinges of pain.

Hell, physical pain was almost enjoyable compared to the pain of betrayal.

"Sir? What are you doing?"

A pair of nurses stood at the doorway, crash cart in the hallway behind them.

"I'm getting out of here. Where are my things?"

Peter suspected Olivia would be there soon, her tongue to offer lies, and knew Walter and Astrid would be here at the crack of dawn. He needed to be out of Boston before that.

Before they had a chance to change his mind.

After the diz-ray incident and Jones, he'd spent a few weekends locating and inventorying the contents of Walter's multitude of safety deposit boxes and rental storage units, which were scattered across Boston. Most of it was complete junk; time capsules Walter had left for himself. But Peter kept the inventory and combinations on a spreadsheet on his phone, just in case it came up in a case again.

And he'd gone back later and added a few things for himself, should the need have ever arisen.

"Are you sure you're alright back there, mon?" the taxi driver asked through the divider, his eyes bright beyond his dreadlocks.

"No, I'm not alright," Peter replied. "Just take me to that address, and don't worry about it. Matter of fact, I'll give you an extra fifty if you forget I was ever here."

Peter shoved a piece of crumpled paper through the hole in the little window. It was the address of a storage unit facility near the river. The first thing he needed was a change of clothes. What Peter was wearing now hadn't come through the incident on the bridge unscathed, and shredded clothing drew attention. There was a suitcase at that location with enough clothes to get out of Boston.

Peter's cell buzzed.

Olivia.

He let it go to voice mail.

The driver's teeth were blinding white in the rear view mirror.

"Who are you, again?" the driver asked.

Olivia stared intently at the cup of coffee in her hands, not letting Peter see her eyes.

"You didn't have the whole story. I just wish..." she started.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, still avoiding his gaze.

Peter shook his head.

"You don't understand how angry I was. If Walter had told me last year, it might have gone differently. But you're you, Walter is Walter, and I'm me. It happened the way it was going to happen. Except for Walternate."

Olivia had left him two more voicemails by the time the sun rose. Peter never bothered to listen to them. He'd rented a car by that time, and was starting his cross country road trip, traveling twelve hours a day, keeping to the back roads, sleeping in cheap hotels along the way, and using cash, not credit. He intended to keep doing that until he ran out of money, then get a job fixing engines or electronics in whatever small town he happened to be in, and start over.

When Walternate offered to take him to the Other Side, to take him home, Peter accepted without hesitation, and they were literally gone in a flash.

"What's she like?"

The redhead doppelganger stood rigid, curious, gazing at him with familiar, olive eyes.

"Who?" Peter asked.

The apartment he stood in was decorated like a shrine to a childhood he'd convinced himself he never had. Now that he was here, it still felt unreal.

She hesitated, then spoke. "Me."

"She's a lot like you," he began. "Darker in the eyes, maybe. She's always trying to make up for something. Right some imaginary wrong. Haunted, I guess...Maybe she's nothing like you at all. Thanks for the ride."

Halfway through his answer, Peter realized that he might have made a mistake, looked for a home he'd never had, and never would.

These weren't his people either.


	8. The Letter

There was a full minute of awkward silence after Peter finished speaking about his time in the Other Universe, and his realization that he didn't have a home there either. They each sat lost in their own thoughts, considering all that had occurred after.

Olivia broke the spell by rising to her feet and going to fill their cups with fresh coffee. She then produced her bottle of Bushmill's from the cupboard over the refrigerator.

"Irish?" she asked with a smile.

"Please," replied Peter.

She poured a finger of whiskey into each of their cups, then sat down and drew the envelope across the table to her and looked at the writing on the front. It was postmarked Berlin, 1998, and had clearly followed Peter on his travels over the years.

Olivia couldn't make the math add up. She looked at Peter, puzzlement obvious in her eyes.

Peter nodded, knowing what she was wondering about.

"I received it the year after she died," he said quietly, then sipped his coffee.

Olivia drummed her fingers on the envelope. "How?"

It was raining the morning Peter Bishop returned to Berlin. There was a certain cosmic symmetry to that, Peter mused; rain when he left, rain when he returned.

Peter had spent the last year and a half in the States. He had gone to visit his mother's grave as soon as he could afford a plane ticket, and hadn't intended to stay, but of course he hadn't the money to leave by the time he got there.

He'd visited the cottage at Reiden Lake, jimmied the lock and let himself in. Here, he wandered through the dusty rooms for an hour, staring at pictures of himself and Mom and Walter – the definitive happy family – pictures that he couldn't recall having partaken in.

Peter had even considered visiting Walter at Saint-Claire's, but that thought had died when he realized he had absolutely nothing to say to the man.

A series of short but profitable jobs followed. Short order cook. Mechanic. Electronics repair. German tutor. He answered a wanted ad and was flown out west to assist in fighting wildfires. After a summer of dirt under his nails and ashes in his lungs, he finally saved enough money to return to Europe.

Peter walked the streets of Berlin, and they felt no more familiar than anything else in his life. Whenever he went back to a place he'd visited before, it seemed surreal, unreal, like he'd never been there. It was unsettling, and it was this feeling of unease that acted as the fuel to his wanderlust.

His feet led him to the park where he once walked with Annika and played chess with Robert. It was morning, and Robert, at the least, should have been there despite the rain; but the cold granite bench where he would always play chess was devoid of occupants.

Peter played chess with a different elderly man, and won in five minutes. Frustrated, he wandered back into town, ignoring the man's pleas for a rematch.

He'd been window shopping downtown for half an hour, ignoring the drizzle, making plans for what to do after Berlin, when he heard a surprised gasp behind him.

"P-Peter?" a familiar voice said.

Peter turned and found Annika, sporting a shorter hairdo, but once again wearing a tee shirt and shorts and sandals, oversized backpack slung off her shoulder.

"It is you!" she said, something like a smile ghosting across her face.

They shared a very, very awkward hug. Peter had never run into an ex-girlfriend before, his relationships with the fairer sex being few and far enough apart that it simply had not happened until now.

She peered up at him, her amber eyes looking for something in his face. She must have found it, because she grabbed his wrist and tugged him down the street.

"Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee and something to eat. My treat."

"...So I thought I'd head up to Amsterdam, try learning Dutch, for my fourth language."

Peter had spent the last hour detailing his return to the States, and subsequent return to Europe, the longest he had talked about himself in his short life. Annika had listened with rapt attention, nodding occasionally, smiling when he told about something particularly Peter-ish, such as the time he got out of a speeding ticket in Vegas by convincing the cop he had diplomatic immunity.

While they talked and drank coffee, afternoon sunlight had replaced the rain. The company and the improving weather had greatly improved Peter's mood.

"I have something that belongs to you," Annika said.

Peter watched curiously as she bent over and opened her ever-present backpack and rummaged around inside. She withdrew an envelope and handed it to him.

"A letter from my mother!" Peter said, reading the familiar, elegant writing of the address. "I...don't know what to say, Annika."

"It arrived at the hostel the day after you left," she said quietly. "I'm sorry if it got a little crumpled. I didn't know where you'd gone, or how to contact you. Or what to do with it. So I just kept it."

"Thank you," Peter said.

"You're welcome. Oh! I have to get to class."

Annika closed her pack, stood up and shouldered it, and they shared another awkward hug, only this time she pecked his cheek and whispered. "Have a good life, Peter."

"Thanks again," he said as she walked away. Annika waved once, and that was the last he saw of her.

Peter sat down and stared at the envelope a long time, numbed by the gesture from someone he hadn't expected such kindness from. He traced Elizabeth's writing on the address with his finger.

Finally, he sighed, and carefully slit open the envelope with his finger, took out and read the letter inside.

Peter paused and sighed. "I should call Astrid, check on Walter. Feel free to..."

Olivia nodded, and Peter walked out into her living room, pulling out his cell phone. She picked up the envelope, carefully drew out the letter it contained and began to read.

Dear Son,

As always, I hope this letter finds you well, and that you are staying out of trouble. Vain, perhaps, but a mother can always hope.

Your birthday is coming soon, and I would dearly like to see you in person. I know you wouldn't accept monetary help from me, but please, come home, if at least for your birthday. It would mean so much to me.

As far as the situation at home goes, nothing has really changed since our last exchange of letters. Walter is still in St. Claire's, and he still loves you, even if he can't express it in a manner you would understand.

Peter, I want to emphasize that the situation at home after your illness was never your fault. Walter didn't abandon you, and I didn't start drinking because of you. Our problems were our own. What matters is, we're family and we belong together. If you come home, I won't insist on you enrolling at MIT, or even going to college – you've always hated school so much. We don't even have to stay in Boston, if you want to leave.

We're family, we belong together. Please come home.

Your loving mother,

Elizabeth Bishop.

Olivia sighed and replaced the letter in the envelope, then put it in the center of the table. She listened to Peter talking to Astrid in her living room, and considered the role of chance in life. She walked up to Peter, threw her arms around his neck and embraced him.

Peter chuckled, holding her against him, his right arm tight around her back as he finished talking to Astrid.

"...Yeah, Skittles are a decent substitute. Just don't let him have more than one bag or he'll never get to sleep tonight. Okay, I'll see you in an hour."

He hung up, and his left arm joined his right around her waist.

"I take it you read the letter?" he asked.

Olivia nodded, her head resting on his shoulder. She didn't trust words enough to say anything at that moment.

"For a long time, I thought that if I'd gotten that letter sooner, if I'd hopped a plane, if..."She felt him shrug." I kind of drove myself crazy for a while like that. But it all sort of worked itself out."

"Thank you," Olivia said. "For sharing. We're a lot alike, in that we don't like to talk about ourselves; so I know what it means when you do."

Peter tilted her chin up, his fingers caressing her cheek, and kissed her.

"You're welcome. But real life intrudes again. I need a ride to the lab. I heard Walter shouting something about wanting to order pizza for dinner. Want to join us at the house?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Olivia smiled. "Besides, Walter's going to have to find out about us one day or another."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Published over at ff.net. Thanks to my beta, Uroboros75 and everyone else who encouraged me over at the Fringe forum on Television Without Pity.


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